


which way i fly is hel

by Imperatrix



Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-10 00:40:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imperatrix/pseuds/Imperatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no journey for love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

On the pillar of life, someone once wrote:

There is no journey for love.

 

Love ends when it begins.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

The universe begins when he is eight, appearance-wise.

Before the anguish and despair (and the delicate wants and floating hopes) have taken their caustic hold, and Loki sees _her_.

Sees her first.

_First._

Turns his head towards the horizon – over the rim of his book – and _sees_ : a mass of golden locks and peachy skin stretched taught over jutting bones. Wholly beautiful. Wholly unusual – from the rest (the rut), spared not a measly thought. And there is a small sense of triumph bubbling, suddenly, deep in his belly. Now, that he has prevailed before Thor in something.

(He will take his victories where he can find them.)

Perched high on an edge – _on the edge of the world_ – on a tree, willow and tall, she overlooks all (the training grounds). Strains her neck, widens her eyes and parts pinkish lips like a fish glimmering gold and swimming in water. There she sits day after day, noon-to-two-hours-past-noon and the cycle begins anew.

From there her eyes – eyes like burnt bronze (sulfuric) and glittering – feast upon the sight of Asgard’s future defenders. Study, memorise and scream despair, a desperate longing that leaves him baffled and dazed.

Time and time again he hears her dejected call and wonders what she seeks.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

A boy turns his head and looks east.

And thinks of a girl (maybe it had been a dream – he’s been dreaming a lot lately). Only it is time the dreams came to a close.

The universe is young and ripe for the picking, and he likes the concept of “opportunity”.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

One day, he decides to approach her.

All-of-a-sudden and out-of-the-blue, he climbs the tree without a peep and plants himself on a branch directly behind her. Wily and tricky, slithery and hidden (him and all his intents), Loki catches her by surprise.

“What are you doing here?”

The girl twists, lets out a shriek. Loses her footing and plummets to the ground, but not before reaching for his shirt and taking him down with her.

Loki yelps, feels the hard collision between gravel and bones. Resists the urge to groan, but the pain in his back is already a fading memory. The press of her palms on his chest, the feel of her ragged breaths against a cheek consume his senses entirely.

“Idiot! Just what were you thinking, sneaking up on me like that?!”

He blinks at her words, consumed in a moment of near rapture and overwhelming, excruciating shock. No one has ever dared address him, a _Prince of Asgard_ , in such an impudent manner. No one! And he’s suddenly contemplating the many different ways to punish her for it, all of them oh so macabre and colourful–

_off with her head and onto a silver tray._

“I wasn’t sneaking!”

“Liar!”

“Horse face!”

Absent of daggers, he can always resort to words. Stinging, cutting words. Swift, sweep and slice, naturally they hit their mark. The girl scrunches her features into a rictus, on the verge of a verbal-physical assault. He glares at her, schools his face regal and stern thinking it will frighten her into submission: _you wouldn’t dare!_

It does not. (He feels wounded.)

“Why you… you, snake!” she hisses (ironically), punching him in the arm and pushing off his chest with a resounding, un-ladylike grunt.

At her retreating back, Loki rubs at his abused limb and struggles not to raise an eyebrow in indignant surprise.

He fails spectacularly.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

In the summer, he travels with (trails behind) his older brother. Through forests and gardens and lakes enchanted where Loki weaves his magic and Thor boasts of his strength.

One day, he performs a trick with elated glee (wishes Father were there to see) – a flick of the wrist and he vanishes from sight. Thor can scarcely believe it; steps off the path and onto grasses and weeds springing forth from acidic soil. He creates deep marks in the dirt and slowly approaches, eyes wide and flabbergasted.

Loki waits, eager and expecting a word of gallant praise (from The Favourite)–

“Brother! If you spent half as much time on the practice fields as you do with your head in books, you would best even Fandral with a sword!”

(Should have known better all along.)

A good-natured jest – for Thor knows not cruelty – and still his smile wavers at the edge, threatens to topple over and pull him under, until his body runs dry and brittle.

His smile wavers, but does not fall.

For Loki has long acquired the gift of _not looking back_. No second glances and no self-doubts.

So when the nobles sneer and the other children jeer, he burnishes himself resolute in solitude. Tucks away the emotions drawn from his exhumed clay chest and lets them rest for another day.

He will show them all greatness in the end–

_and devour the ashes from their cremated corpses._

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

A boy turns his head and looks out onto the horizon.

(And dreams of a girl, full of hopes, of hollowness, of hallowedness, of everything he has and is worth not.)

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

Fate is a precarious thing.

It likes to mock, and its decisions are force-fed, hell-bent, born from fire. From woe.

And so Fate decrees that Thor should meet her too.

In answer to his brother’s invitation to the world for a spar, she dusts herself off and takes him on to win. Thor is astounded (grinning), Loki is resentful (frowning). Wasting no time, his brother invites her to join him in training and her face lights up brighter than a dying star exploding.

In that moment, Loki feels as if he has already lost somehow. Forgotten. Vanquished into thin air. And he can’t help the twist of pain deep in his chest, festering and building momentum.

Because there is no such thing as conscience.

There is no such thing as _concession_.

There is only a taunting twist of circumstances and envy and more envy.

And when envy is not nearly enough, there is always hate.

So his pranks turn all the more vicious, frighteningly malicious. His tongue is a serpent fork and no one is spared, least of all her. Every bruising name and adjective in his vocabulary is volleyed her way until the world seems less green and her ire is sparked – he so does _enjoy_ seeing her mad. So much so, it becomes like a game to him.

On the seventh day, she throws her practice sword to the ground and advances on him, fuming.

“My name is _Sif_ ,” she stresses, pokes every word into his chest with her forefinger.

Sif, she repeats and ingrains into him. _Sif. Remember it_.

Sif-Sif-Sif. _Sif_.

The name sounds heavy and coppery like blood; it drips from the roof of his mouth and onto his tongue. He swallows, but the name remains like a scarred patch of burned flesh.

“Sif,” he tries it out loud, finds he doesn’t mind it so much.

The girl smirks, smug and triumphant and leaves him lost for words. _A first_.

Ensnared, Loki will never forget.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

Unremitting in her praise, love, adoration, one and all, Sif zeroes in on the meaning of _devotion_.

Loki observes her training with Thor, sees them together more often than not. His brother is a plague, formidable in his devastation. But Sif takes all his brutality in and hones the shards into a sleek, cool blade. She is gaining speed, catching a storm.

She strikes.

Thor only scarcely dodges the blow, grin wide. As wide as her own. And so it goes, into perpetuity and beyond:

Sif-and-Thor, Thor-and-Sif. Sif-and-Thor-minus-him.

And when the blades have long been dropped, they take to reciting old legends and tales of war. Mouths only inches apart, always laughing and happy and deplorably _noble_ in their vows to have the other’s back–

Loki scoffs, makes some offhanded remark on their foolishness.

Still, they persist. Like a nasty, vile thorn in his side. Poking and searing and penetrating the skin. Leaving him wishing he could spell them off to another realm where they won’t annoy him a second more. And yet, he finds himself more and more fascinated.

By her.

By the catch of sunlight in her hair and languid battle forms and slivers of chatter sent Thor’s way (the opportune toad). And it’s all he can do not to gravitate towards her. Like a common fly or worse, a _bee_ – Loki _hates_ honey and bees.

Repulsive. Sweet (sweat).

(Sif always smells like honey.)

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

One day, Thor offers her an apple from Idunn’s new harvest.

Loki watches out of curiosity (as to how she will respond). She takes the fruit awkwardly, bites into the golden flesh and beams.

“This is amazing!”

“I saw it on the tree and thought of you,” Thor confesses, almost bashful.

“Me?”

“Yes, that is, your hair.” And now he is blushing, feverish, a crimson tint crawling across his cheeks.

Sif grins, all flashing teeth and white euphoria.

Loki turns to leave and takes with him a knowing ache.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

Today, he will grind _him_ to dust. Victoriously, he will tower over him and smile in that elusive, astute way of his, assured of his worth (basking in a father’s prideful gaze). And all of Asgard will watch as he declares _I am your equal_.

However, today is not there yet.  

Forlorn, exasperated at all around him, Loki sighs and returns to his studies.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

Like a shadow slithering across the floor (a charcoal, stifling, _creepy_ thing) he’s somehow managed to lock fingers with hers. And she is surprised, is bug-eyed at this, this advance.

Because it’s something that’s never been implied, never been touched, never let loose.

Her skin is radiating from the sweat of the day’s training, a sun-kissed bronze matted over by anticipation and white. He can see her eyes, hazel and bottomless like a volcanic abyss. And in them, he sees his reflection and mania (a premonition and promise of all too come).

“I can _feel_ your gaze fleet over me.”

“What are you talking about?” she asks, suspicious.

“Don’t you like me, Sif?”

“ _What are you talking about_?” (and this is all-the-more insistent).

“It’s in the blood, I know. But it’s my blood too! Doesn’t that make a difference? Doesn’t that even the odds? I just… I just want an explanation.”

“An explanation of _what_? I don’t understand what you’re… going on about.”

A denial, a rejection; veiled in perfect ambiguity.

Her fingers slip from his, leave him with a deadened thing in his chest. Loki waits for her to go, to retreat to his brother and dissipate into her comfortable oblivion of sharpened swords and weighty shields, beyond his sight (and reach).

_Always just beyond._

Sif does not disappoint.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

Loki wishes she would look at him with the same eyes she has for Thor.

Loki wishes she would just _look at him_.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

And then, one day, an idea strikes: he will give her a gift.

Not flowers or measly golden trinkets, the usual and mundane, but something closer to heart. Something sure to bring pause, thought and perhaps even a smile.

For six days and six nights Loki sets about designing and forging a dagger, curved and sharp and a work of art.

All too deadly. All too beautiful.

Sif will positively adore it!

Smiling accomplished and hopeful, he makes his way to Sif’s appointed chambers with an uncharacteristic pep in his step. A jump here, a skip there, a hum rising deep from his chest and then… then he stops. Whispers and gossip ignite like a flame, lick at his ears with all too cruel and crushing intent:

_Thor is to marry Sif._

Bloated and stuffed, like popped wheat or rye. So the court’s rumour mill goes (those bumbling peacocks never shut up), and his mind is abuzz, is ablaze. Incredulous and despaired. The illusive wisps of something intangible and unnamed slips from his fingers as he – the entire realm – comes to a screeching halt.

Something _snaps_.

Something _cracks_.

The dagger falls from his hand – makes a reverberating clank as it hits the hard, cold marble floor. Again. _Again_. Again he is–

_overlooked_

_worthless_

_second-best_

To Thor. Always Thor. _Alwaysalwaysalways_ –

_stop!_

Because… because there is something putrid inside him, foreign and frightening, on show for all to see. Debauching his thoughts (aims for the heart). It is the only explanation on why this – the distrust, the automatic dislike – has become ritualistic.

Caustic: like inhaling metallic, acrid dust in the heart of a desert-winter.

Infected with venom, resentment strikes ( _out of spite_ ). Taints him to the core and he is suddenly running.

Running far and fast with chaos on his mind.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

Sometimes, he can feel his heart ascending and aching, the rise and falls of a streamlined cadence.

_Like now._

In the thick of shadows, he travels down winding corridors. Follows the same path he’d set upon earlier in the day, now immersed in a cloak of black. Swathed and choked in residual heat, the air carries the acerbic flakes of retribution ensuing.

He can’t stop it, the movement. One step, two. Creep and crawl, he teeters closer to his target (to spoiling something Thor so sickeningly adores).

Closer.

_Closer._

The dagger pulses in his hand.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

Footsteps from outside his door, Loki turns his attention.

Footfalls from within, he lifts his gaze and meets: a tempest.

Sif storms towards him, picks up in fury. Her face turns livid, is vapid-churning. Golden locks shorn, hazardous cut and close to the scalp – beauty forgone – she paints a wonderfully gruesome picture.

Loki looks away (hides a hideous grin). He couldn’t be more pleased.

“You cut my hair!”

“Your point, Lady Sif?” he asks idly, raises his eyes away from the book spilled open on his lap.

 _Nonchalance_ , that is crucial and cemented to heart.

“You cut my hair, Loki! _My_ hair,” Sif emphasises – again, as if that will make a difference (as if that will make him care).

“It’s just hair.”

 _Just hair_. Just an issue of life or death.

A pause, thick with hurt, and her eyes begin to water, gleaming wet like lunar seas. His throat goes dry at the betrayal written plainly in them, but he pays it little heed. Not when she’s looking directly at him. At _him_.

Loki can scarcely contain the slight spark of excitement as he feels his heart skip a beat, stop, and drop. Giddy and swallowing suddenly, he dares not shift. And when she vise-grips his wrists, he lies back and lets her crush the softened bone-clay beneath death-pale skin.

“You _will_ fix this!”

Demands and unspoken threats made, she releases him – abrupt – and storms off with all her Hel-wrought furies. Takes with her his bones, leaves him paralysed on the spot, malleable, like mushed, gunked up marsh as she burns a long, lonely path away from him.

Weary, a sigh escapes him. Closing his book, he pulls out a small lock of her hair from inside his pocket. It gleams like spun gold as he twirls it around his finger, fiddle and piddle, his mind busily unravelling possibilities. Means and spells with which to remedy this. Inaction would suit him just fine but he knows all too well of mischief and mayhem, and how the two always implode in a glorious shower of sulphur and retribution.

Unfortunately for him, Sif has the ability to skin him alive should she so want to.

(She already claimed his heart – ripped it from his chest – aeons ago.)

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

The dwarfs, he decides.

Eyes bright and tongue silver, Loki enters their realm and weaves a wager amid a string of calculated and poisoned words: _doubt, I do, that you could forge gold so magnificent and fine as to rival the Lady Sif’s golden hair. Why, prove me wrong, and I grant you my head!_

The dwarfs, not to be bested, set to work. He sits and waits like a snake coiled and ready to strike – and misses.

No one cares for his cunning when the time for collection comes, how he notes his promise of payment only ever entailed his head.

And not his neck.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

Loki tries to run. Fast, lithe, he gains an easy stretch ahead of them. But they catch up quick; a club volleyed to the back of his head, and he’s a-tumbling down.

Rough, burly fingers keep him there, creep about his neck. They grasp (hold-burn) and won't release their clutch. Slowly, he begins to choke.

Feels the life being strangled out of his cold, cold soon-to-be-corpse.

And just as his vision begins to swim, like a miasma stretching forth, bleak and tinted murky black, he sees the outline of a long, rusty needle coming down–

down, right upon his face.

Loki struggles, pulse wild and in a-frenzy. The dwarfs laugh – acerbic, cacophonous – and promise: _we’ll make you cry_.

Then, he feels it – a slash at his lips. And then, sharp, the smell of ripe blood pollutes the air – carries with it a deluge of white-hot agony.

Without remorse, the dwarf before him brings the needle down again, for a second – third, fourth, fifth – swipe.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

_What’s wrong, Trickster Prince?_

Loki tries to opens his mouth, finds he cannot. Echo, hollow, drowning on spittle, blood and bile, his scream falls and fails.

_Are you afraid, boy?_

–Terrified.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

The sun has set upon his return.

Loki observes the bright flashes of yellow and sudden, overwhelming bursts (like a blood cell dying) and feels an infinite swelling of aching and knowing.

That he is alive.

Alive and safe in Asgard, where gods rule unopposed (and sneer as ubiquitous vengeance is brought down upon the wasted, _lower_ worlds, left to rot in filth). And so too Loki vows pain and terror upon those who beat him, scarred him–

_will gut them deep and raw, hang them upside-tipsy-side toward the sky._

He almost smiles at the thought, something cruel and rotten, only to feel muscle and skin pull and tug against a brutal criss-cross of leather strips. And quick like his newfound hate spreading, he collapses (hasn’t the strength to disappear from inevitable, prying gazes). On his side, huddled and curled, the nauseating sensations of pain and weariness sap his muscles and arteries dry.

There he remains, brought out of delirium late in the hour by a cutting screech.

And there are hands on him, voices rising. Someone is carrying him, and he scarcely makes out the soft gold planes of Eir’s healing rooms amid a tumult of shouts and cries (muted chuckles and veiled snickers).

Warm fingers sweep over his forehead, his cheeks (mercifully avoid the lips) and there is a searing sensation of tears falling, rolling – dot – right on his face. Loki lifts his eyes and sees–

_Mother._

Feels a swell, just beneath his lungs. Whimpers in her arms and sits up, clutches the folds of her dress in a near death-grip. On the verge of crying, he buries his face in her chest as she holds him tight, the melody of soothing whispers and lulling coos echoing against his ears.

“Hush, little one. All is well now.”

With the easing of his fears and sorrows, he shifts his head to the side… to where… to where Sif stands.

Horrified (crucified).

And all Loki does is meet her gaze through glassy eyes. Tries to pour every ounce of loathing and resignation into it (it would be so much easier to hate her). Seethes and fumes until his eyes shriek with caustic ice: go on, say it.

 _–_ Say it, _I’m wicked. I’m rotten. I deserve this_.

As if goading, as if she’ll dare say otherwise.

Sif shifts, hesitant. Her gaze wavers – sees the fury in his and silent screams – and she has the good sense to take a step back. Another, and another before she turns and hastily retreats.

_Better this way._

_Easier this way._

Loki repeats the words like a mantra, twice, thrice until they sink, deep. Deep into every nook and cranny of his mind.

Where they cannot be removed.

Where they will eternally remain.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

They do not speak again after that night (still cannot bear to meet her eye).

Icy and reserved, Loki masters the fine art of avoidance – all good, painless and indifferent.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

He tries to forget, again and again only to fail and this, _this_ is torture (the dreams still come, mocking, wound-up like some demonic incantations). In the festering recess crypts of his mind, a scene is cruelly trapped on rewind:

Sif stalking forth.

Sif reaching for–

Twist and tangle, high and dazzled, the images taunt him in synchrony. Drive him to brink of madness and back again. Until, one day, Sif sticks her head through his chamber doors, hawk-eyes searching, neck protruding like the scaly, writhing twist of a dragon about to roar.

An intruder (succubus, lush – _hush, not now_ ), he looks her down, cold in pale brutality, pretending not-surprise.

Unflinching, determined, Sif steps toward him.

“Loki–”

_Don’t speak._

_Don’t breathe._

Heedless she twists her mouth, hardens her gaze. Contorts minds and breaths, and expels a child’s lie–

_Don’t–_

“I forgive you.”

Plain, simple, absent the finesse of an artful preamble. Unravelled like a gaunt, blunt declaration of war, Sif drowns him in the filth of absolution.

And takes her leave, all said and done, back rigid and heart taut.

Leaves him with his not-thoughts, crippled and shockingly tranquil. He inhales deep and relinquishes a shaky breath, dazed and drugged on the faintest scent of honey and winter pine.

Slowly, his resilience and anger crumble. Like all coiled beasts, so too misshapen desires learn to rebel.

Loki surrenders.

Loki believes her.

And for now, he pretends all is right and joyful.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

That night, when she thinks he is asleep, Sif sneaks into his rooms and comes to a pause before a chest.

Curious, he watches her from beneath half-closed lids. Drenched in pale grey starlight, Sif resembles a statue. A small, fallaciously frail statuette, carved not of marble but of faint ivory and jade.

Shoulders squared, she quietly reaches into his wooden sanctuary of relics and pulls something out, silver and metallic and gleaming deathly sharp.

Loki instantly stiffens, expecting the worst – a war cry, a slice of pain. Drenched, crimson sheets and wonders–

if a blade plunged through the heart will be a swift, merciful death, like he always imagined it.

But Sif surprises him entirely when she does naught but leave.

Features slithered into a high, blank wall, stretching out thin, scrawny limbs, Loki pushes back sheets and furs and inspects the extent of her crime.

He opens the chest, inhales sharp and full (dreams of horizons and the end of battle, blood-lust sated with pillage and spoils) and grins.

The dagger is gone.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

Floating blithely on aggrandized dreams, Loki awakes to bright sun rays (re-painting his insides, the charred and grim).

He breathes deep and for the first time in centuries knows peace.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

When her hair grows back, it is to his surprise – and hidden _glee_ – black. A little less like Thor’s and a little more like his.

His.

_Him._

Loki smiles.

The universe is beautiful that day.

 

 

 

-


	2. Chapter 2

Life proves itself frangible, full of dearth, muck, and dirt.

The autumn leaves frost over, cold, leaden and gleaming with a musty mist. Seasons alternate their names, and they all grow old ( _older_ ).

And Loki can think of three days in one. And each is shorter than the last, and each is quicker (swifter, more entreating, going, going, like an arrow in the wind) than the last. He counts his fingers as his years, and his face reflects the scars he’s seen and has yet to see.

Then, one day, Loki does not count anymore.

Then, one day, Loki tries to rest. To stop and decay.

Only to find: he cannot.

 

 

-

 

 

The universe spins madly on.

 

 

-

 

 

On slow wistful days, he turns his head (and thinks of yesterday).

And there is a girl – no more – now twenty and two.

Her legs have stretched from awkward, lanky roots into long, long, _long_ limbs. Her face is a curse unparalleled, and she finds herself pursued – by countless scruffy, gruffly groomed buffoons.

_All eager to burn…_

Ill and lethal, Loki observes their futile advances from secluded sidelines with practiced loathing and spite.

_burn inside out._

Watches her turn her gaze from them to Thor, cheeks flushed and lips chapped. Watches as she walks towards him, fiery and determined and engrossed in his everything.

Loki ignores the hair-raising twinge, the knowledge of what can never be, and refuses to put words to thoughts (that would not be pragmatic). Every whim, every desire and hope sleeps quietly in the fluttering keeps of his stomach and hibernates in the crevices between membranes – all good and still.

He only stares, as he’s always done (or blatantly silently despairs).

But he never wears his intentions as a second skin (that would not be pragmatic).

And Loki will have none of that.

 

 

-

 

 

In Asgard, the realm remains stagnant. It does not move, does not breathe, and does not shift in its shiftless state – beyond war and the tired ways-of-old.

There is no place for sorcerers, for scholars. For women outside the hearth.

And it is in Asgard where Sif takes her stance against other naturally brilliant killers (born to fight and plunge daggers six inches deep). They contort their features into an ugly frown at her arrival, sneer and snicker and leer: _you’re in the wrong place, wench._

Sif hardens her gaze just as Loki hardens his, their plights and blights analogous. She looks the one who spoke directly in the eye and challenges him.

He smirks at her, indulging and vapid, and waves his hand, encouraging her forward.

 _This one needs to break_ , Loki thinks, not-amused.

Slash, her opponent brandishes his sword. The blow comes across furious and brilliant (which she sidesteps easily). It screams in her face, wants acknowledgment. Another strike aimed for the head and he catches a lock of her hair.

“It becomes you, _woman_ ,” he cackles.

Sif doesn’t reply, just smiles violently back and takes full swing. The air crackles under strain, knees bending from no support. Her arms ache and strain as she parries blow after blow with her glaive. Seeing an opening she moves. Sends him toppling to the floor, and then she stops.

And says, low and harsh.

“You’re not worth my time.”

Sif shows her back, and that’s when the severing comes.

The soldier jumps, glides arm and sword across the barren sky, and strikes. Down Sif’s spine, igniting a deluge of pain and leaving her scarred.

Sif cries, Sif drops. The surrounding men holler and roar.

Loki clenches his fist, miasmic and acid-laced.

_This one needs to bleed._

 

 

-

 

 

Struck

–through the leg.

The fool is impaled. Crumbles hard and fast from his unwarranted victory.

Loki straightens, dissipates his double (that has left everyone ruffled), and is poised for destruction. He is cool and shrewd and calculates the passing of time – waits exactly four seconds before striking. There is elegance to the art of annihilation, the timely symphony of anticipation, and Loki savours the moment. Extending his arm, another dagger flies, reeking of pain and death.

It lands, to his dismay, an inch from the soldier’s face, embeds deep in dirt and clay.

The man’s jaw drops, trembles. Aphasia tried and true.

Masking a scowl, Loki takes his leave, back rigid, the grim amusement and disbelief of the crowd nipping at his heels.

Makes it to the edge before Fandral’s voice finds him over the grating cacophony.

“An…uh, _interesting_ trick, Loki! Though you had us all worried for a moment there… it seemed as if you were truly aiming for his head!”

A smile cuts across his lips, and really, Loki thinks he should humour him (just a little). Turns his head, a volley of silver and wit on the edge of his tongue, and stops. Words disintegrate as he meets Sif’s weary gaze from the floor as she’s hoisted up by Hogun.

Eyes biting.

And altogether knowing.

 

 

-

 

 

A young man looks out onto the horizon and vows: he will never let her come to harm.

(But danger is something innate from within–

from him.)

 

 

-

 

 

Behind double-bolted, double-spelled polished doors, Frigga pours the tea.

Jasmine for her and black for him. Sweet like her, and bitter like him. For the hunger inside him is growing, gnawing. Reaching his bones and turning them into sickly saps and waning wastes.

“Is everything well, child of mine?”

_No–_

“Yes,” Loki replies, shifting his weight away from her (pretending like she cannot see his face-soul).

“Truly?”

And this is a little more insistent, entirely suspicious. Because Mother knows ( _everything_ ). A collection of lies die on his tongue, and he is left lost for words. Is depleted of his cunning wits and skills.

“What is my worth?”

 _–_ _beyond my title and name._

Her gaze turns pained (as if struck), the sweet smile falls from her lips. She holds – holed in Hel – her breath before slowly taking his hand.

“Look,” Frigga points to the east (where things begin) up the hill to a gnarled tree, blooming, just in spring. “The flowers are exceptionally beautiful this year. But they, as all things, took time to grow. To shape and form, and show their true worth.”

Her hold on his hand tightens. “In time, all will see and appreciate you as I do.”

Loki listens to her words with his heart alert and crucified. Placated (in dejection) he festers in the knowledge that there’s something filthy with how things are and continue to be. But Mother never comments on how to change the status quo.

And Loki doesn’t ask.

 

 

-

 

 

Overcome and receding, he immerses himself in his studies.

In tomes written in dead languages full of secrets. Brimming with little whispers calling out, _beckoning_ , promising power that is not to be found at the end of a sword or upon the battlefield. Of a power far greater, grander – one capable of bending Yggdrasil herself and the surrounding cosmos to his very will.

And all the while, Thor learns about war and glory. How he is destined to be The Greatest King Asgard has Ever Known.

 _What an exaggerated boast_ Loki thinks and scowls and reveals naught to the world.

But _exaggerate_ has a nasty habit of lashing back, of cutting off heads and quieting the great–

and, just like that, an idea is born. Takes root and slowly spreads like liquid poison from the deepest, darkest parts of him. Slowly. Surely.

The gleam in his eyes turns manic.

 

 

-

 

 

One morning, a village below Nornheim’s mountains is eaten up, shrivelled up. The people are dying (and there is no reason – no senseless war and no massacring Frost Giants anymore). And they are scared, shaking in their homes and whimpering day and night. Awaiting their King, Prince and Saviour to come.

“I will lead our forces against this threat, whatever it may be!” Thor declares, pitifully naïve and predictably gallant.

Loki thinks to speak up, to champion _patience_ and _strategy_. But then Odin concedes (has become far too old for heroics such as these).

The men mobilise, the prospect of war rolling over them like heady, intoxicating wine. Setting their blood ablaze and reason to waste. People take to the streets as the discordance of hooves and boots engulfs the centre of Asgard, igniting a chorus of cheers and adulations.

Thor rides at the head, breathing it all in with a grin and promising nothing less than total victory–

 _by his own hand_.

Loki watches from his own steed as all those gathered take his boasts as god-sent, _truth_ , and shakes his head.

He alone knows that believing (faith) is the self-incursion of doom.

 

 

-

 

 

Nornheim is in ruins upon their arrival, its buildings threatening to topple at an instant.

There are skinless bodies littering the outskirts. In the mountains, like excoriated rubbish, piled alone and abandoned. Their hacked organs churn into debris and float along ocean foam.

It’s horrendous, calamitous – an image of brutalities long left to the great wars of old. An eerie stillness engulfs the Aesir then, disbelief building as rivers of blood bloom out around them, completing a circle of haphazard mortality.

The cold seas turn red – the chilling stillness suddenly pierced by vivid screams.

“It’s coming from atop those cliffs,” one of the generals behind them states.

“Then that is where we head!” Thor declares, features taut and eyes grim.

Between two streams, with the imposing mountains up ahead, the legions mobilise and span out. Spears are brought forth; swords are unsheathed with impassioned speed. It’s all instinctual, immediate, absent proper caution. Loki can’t quite help the unease running its chilling course down his spine as he gazes out at the front lines, out in the open, edging closer – _closer_ – to those high, high cliffs.

_Something is amiss–_

He sees it then, movement. A slight shift amongst the stillness of grey rock surely lost on anyone not gazing intently upon it. A smokescreen. A ruse. A tr _–_

“Pull back!” he shouts, only for it to be lost amidst a sudden barrage of devastation.

From high above, molten boulders are unleashed, landing hard and fast and scorching everything in their path. Soldiers shriek and cry, their bodies instantly crushed and ablaze. The onslaught persists. Colossal figures spring from their furtive façades, clubs raised high, running rampant and sparing nothing in their destructive path.

 _Rock Trolls_ his mind quickly supplies.

And then, the world knows nothing but chaos.

 

 

-

 

 

A storm is brewing. Breathing heavy, Loki feels the sizzle in the air. Coarse and brittle, his skin crawls, knotting into spasms that barely contain his sore muscles. Covered in sweat, he slays, cool and fluid (alone and not-praised). Up ahead, without strikes intercepted or hesitation in blows, Thor roars and swings Mjölnir with brazen, thundering fury.

_Uncultured brute._

Yet knowing he’ll endure, Loki turns his sights from his brother and sees–

Sif. Enthralled in the symphony of battle, moving with visceral, liquid grace. A slash, a step, two strikes, parry, repeat. Effortless, prodigious, nothing exists save the opponent before her. So when he sees a javelin aimed straight at her back – feels his tongue parching into a coarse coil – he knows he must intercede.

Loki lets a dagger fly.

And is just as promptly beaten to the ground.

Broken. In agony and pain.

His back protests wretchedly, blood dots his lips as he coughs against the pressure building at his side. Two broken ribs, a punctured lung, it’s enough to render him fleetingly immobile. Enough for his attacker to take stance above him, club raised high before coming down.

Loki blinks. Sees the lurid lights of death gather around him like cosmic, millennial guidance. Ready and waiting to take him. Closing his eyes slowly, he braces himself for the blow….

Hot and wet, something lands on his face. The world is suddenly scarlet and a severed arm falls pathetically next to his head.

And then there’s Sif, filling his vision with all her exquisite fury. Her glaive comes down for a second strike, his attacker roars in pain and moves his remaining arm. Finding her sword-hand, he stops her swing and sends her weapon flying.

Sif does not hesitate, does not pause. From her boot a dagger is drawn, sharp and curved (and eerily _familiar_ ), and is promptly brought across the beast’s throat, unleashing a torrent of blood.

The Rock Troll falls, dead.

Loki looks his saviour in the face.

(Is rendered speechless all over again.)

 

 

-

 

 

“I do believe that dagger belongs to me, Lady Sif.”

“Not anymore, I found it.”

“You _stole_ it.”

“Semantics. But if it bothers you that much, consider it reparation. My hair is still black, after all.”

“…As the Lady wishes, then.”

 

 

-

 

 

Post-war and post-death, it rains. Droplets soak their armour-clad bodies, cooling their heated cores. Everywhere, he sees faces streaked with crimson and ashes, clogging nostrils and choking windpipes.

Still sore and morbidly silently _hollow_ , Loki idly catalogues the losses amidst a valley of corpses. Aesir and foe, so they lie by the hundreds. A hefty price for the ranks, but wild praises and promises of eternity in Valhalla ease the sombre mood engulfing the living victors. Loki cannot say he concurs, not when faced with the memory of his own mortality.

Of Sif’s.

No hereafter glory can ease the thought of _that_ would-be loss – his own seems nay inconsequential in comparison.

Unsettled, looking beyond graves and incantations of religions, Loki turns towards the Lady herself. Hoping to catch her eye, appease the tumult within, show gratitude for her valour beyond veiled frippery and simple jests.

He meets her gaze, the beginnings of a (sincere) smile forming at the corners of his lips… only for Thor to appear at her side, hand on her shoulder, her attention shifting to him – and _only_ him – in an instant.

Alone, forgotten, the smile dies. Loki stares into their backs, eyes reflecting years of inadequacy and failure. It’s becoming tedious and he’s been imprisoned _in this cruel, unusual, heterodox farce masquerading as parity_.

He is nobody (he knows), fated to wallow in the inglorious gulfs of anonymity. A step behind Thor, centuries behind the infamy of the throne (a father’s approval and love).

_An eternity behind the race for Sif’s heart, beating hard and red in his palm._

Closing his eyes with a weary sigh, Loki begins the count towards infinity-minus-one.

 

 

-

 

 

Mind in the rut, firm to the ground, rooted to the gleaming metal of this majestic jungle; Loki watches as the entire realm pays homage to Thor.

Thor, who believes himself a _hero_. Who marched blindly into battle with mindless abandon dissolved and honed into a destructive dilution. So Thor’s life was, is – now and forever – a never-ending series of propitious glories and crushed foes masquerading as triumph.

He is so predictable, so brash and brutish. So _unworthy_ of being lauded as _champion_.

(The cheers grow deafening.

The pride in a father’s eyes turns blinding.)

And there, too, is Sif. Standing tall and proud to his brother’s right. Head held high, breathing deep, taking in the scent of recognition of validation of triumph. Gaze focused on Thor, _golden Thor_ , gleaming bright with a thousand different hopes (a thousand and one pining hearts).

_Loki sees all._

In neat little rinds, in neat little roots, Thor, Father (Sif) stand. Together, without him. Without him, _the Other_.

Sickeningly green, damage-run and toxic, envy clings to him. It’s a poison he can never evade. It’s ingrained. Seared to the char-decayed root he calls a heart.

Spreading fast, with malice on its mind.

 

 

-

 

 

 _Resentment_ , he soon learns, has no remedy.

 

 

-

 

 

He dreams of quitting, of disavowing, of abandoning – only to envision her face forever and again.

With thoughts shot dark, ringing, echoing against a vaulted ceiling, the livid, vivid image of her lingers and languishes in his mind. Like feather-light skeletal wisps, he can almost make out the feel of her breasts and thighs on his hands.

Smarting, his palms are ablaze.

Maddened with desperation, seeking absolution, he weaves an apparition. More real than not and with a jolt, Loki drops his hand. Scorched and overwhelmed _._ Like a curse superimposed on the swirls of his fingertips, he appraises his creation with aversion and veneration.

Slowly, carefully, she takes him by the hand and lifts him from his seat, peels away the leather and linen. Layer by layer, she bares him raw.

 _Sif_ , he whispers as she goes down.

 

 

-

 

 

He sees stars.

Is hit with a dizzy rush (honey thick on his tongue).

Learns to feel alive for one fleeting flash. And then, smeared like blood across blue ice, he is brought back down from his euphoric high–

is wiped out all over again.

 

 

-

 

 

Tiring is witnessing Thor’s countless triumphs, the praises, the lavish feasts held in his honour.

Though never one to let anything slip, Loki makes the requisite appearance. Dwells in blissful seclusion and paints grievances across bronze ceilings. Only to slowly find his eyes falling upon Sif, trailing every move she makes. He can’t stop them, the furtive glances. And before he can assess the perils of inebriation, he’s reaching for a goblet of mead.

Brings it to his lips and attempts to shut his eyes – turn his gaze – and dream of some other suitably excruciating demise.

_Fails._

For she’s like those webs bees make, intricate and lethal and deliriously compelling.

And so, like some maladroit masochist reborn, he resigns to watch: the way her long hair pools around her shoulders like a black, iron-shield curtain. The way she tosses her head back and laughs at something his fool brother has said, her face blooming with joy and all things lovely.

If anything, at that very moment, she looks happy and delighted and in–

Loki refuses to contemplate that.

Fingers tightening on his cup, he downs the mead, focuses on the feel of acid coating his throat-cells as it slithers down. He finds little reprieve.

Making for the exit (before he does something truly horrendous) he catches Sif’s eyes trained directly upon him through the crowd. She forces a smile once their gazes meet; small, disquieting and–

Loki stops.

Sees it carved across the planes of her face, reflected in her eyes, clear as light as day:

_Dismay._

Thick, the sheer stench of it inundates his senses and seeps through his flesh. And he is at a loss with how to respond, thinking it must be a ruse – foul play – a flagrant _lie_. She must have seen him looking her way (Thor’s), seen the palpable want and envy he so desperately attempts to shield every day. Must be _mocking_ him, he reasons.

Mockity mockity mock mock _mock_.

Swallowing the sudden anger-coated lump lodged in his throat, he shoots her a particularly nasty scowl and continues on his way.

_Best to keep the bees at bay and the honey stashed far away._

 

 

-

 

 

It seems like they’ve been wandering around, winding back and forth, this-way-that, for an eternity now. And there’s never been an end in sight to this course, this madness–

“Loki!”

until now.

Nails digging into his palms, he scowls. Gathers his wits into a tight fist before turning at the sound of her voice, features quickly masked blissfully detached.

“Yes, Lady Sif?”

He imagines her next words to be something scathing. Something utterly reproachful. Something–  
“What’s wrong?”

Something… utterly different. Less alarming. His wellbeing is not a topic broached by anyone save his beloved mother, and he’s all too wary of Sif’s intentions. So he tells her: nothing.

It’s a self-defence strategy he’s taught himself well.

“Flattered as I am, you needn’t concern yourself with my welfare, dear Lady,” he answers coolly, half-smile in place.

It’s a well-worn, well-practiced response by now. Rinse, repeat, and say it again: “I’m quite all right.”

A lie: purposeful, loathsome. And altogether necessary. Reality is heartless – cruel – with no escape discernible in its truths. And when it comes to _her_ , there is only a valley of deaths and traps to be found.

And so, thinking the matter mercifully closed, he turns to leave. Only to feel her hand on his arm, hot and smarting like a branding iron.

“No, Loki. You’re not. Tell me what is troubling you.”

Loki turns to face her, and he is no longer teasing (or part-pretend-jocundly saying). His face storms over and there is a devilish, malignant cloud spreading. Cancerous, engulfing, Loki is no longer teasing.

“Why do you care?” he seethes, advancing on her with palpable rage until her back hits the wall and he’s looming over her.

Their faces are close, too close. Sif’s eyes are wide and stained with shock but when she speaks her voice is soft, slow.

“You are a friend, Loki.”

He snorts in derision, lips twisting in a cruel upward tilt. “ _Of course_ I am.”

Her eyes narrow at this, disbelieving, features contorting from rage and the beginnings of an inevitable tirade.

“Do not dare mock my sincerity!”

And she shoves him away, the white planes of her face fading to pink, deepening to scarlet. She is mad, so very, _very_ mad. And he is, too. Mad that he can’t decipher her reaction, mad that she’s managed to get under his skin again.

_Again._

Loki grits his teeth, resolved. The time has come to end this.

 

 

-

 

 

Gone are the days when fantasies roamed.

All that remains is reality in quintessence, longing personified, and he is hysteric, dreadfully delirious, is–

fantastically caught in an infinite circle.

With every step that bridges the distance, head a-pounding and heart a-thumping, he finds reason to believe he’s losing his mind. Even so, Loki closes the distance and kisses her raw.

Kisses her brutal.

War is synonymous with Sif and she doesn’t push him away. Rather, she responds in kind. They bite into each other, bite into mouths, teeth clinking and the world is a haze of lips and tongues and blood and more blood. She scratches the side of his neck, leaves deep crescent scars in her wake. His fingers tangle in her hair as he captures her bottom lip, biting down hard and drawing red.

Sif moans into his mouth – sweeter than pain, a pitch higher than regret.

Exhaling deep, Loki opens his eyes–

thinks he is dreaming of angels simmering in Hel.

 

 

-

 

 

It’s violent. It’s quick, chaotic. It’s everything he’s never wanted.

They stumble into his chambers and make it no farther than the large, ornate desk by the open window. He lifts her onto it amidst a flurry of cacophony and chaos – of descending books and falling tomes, splattered ink and rolling quills. Sif battles with the fasteners of his tunic, pushing it over his shoulders before dragging his shirt over his head. And there are teeth, digging into his flesh. And his hands are shaking, flittering over her waist and hips, down her thighs and shapely calves.

Fighting the roaring of blood and self-loathing in his ear, he does away with incredulity and doubt. _Paradise_ , he tells himself, hoping for appeasement. Like an oasis shimmering – taunting – from afar, engorged on promises of bliss and salvation.

This is heaven–

_for the damned._

This is… this is… undeniably fantastically _wrong_.

Bitter, shallow and hollow, he should have expected such calamity. Even with Sif feeling good and right under him. Even with her beautiful face challenging him and lips chanting _harder harder more_ , it is not enough.

(Non-existent are the tentative markings of an illustrious “she and he”.)

Loki tries not to care – tries not to come apart. _Not now_.

Swallowing his agony, he slams his hips hard against hers and she gasps, nails dragging bloody lines down his back.

At the sting of pain he grants her a small, desolate smile.

 

 

-

 

 

The post-advent of any war unavoidably culminates in calamities, in enervation, and the morning after is a suitably melancholic affair.

The laughter and chatter following Thor and the Warriors Three glides over them, unheeded, as they avoid one another like a curse. With a shaky hand, Loki tugs at his collar – can practically feel the sharp, tiny points of her nails and teeth breaking skin. He shudders. Waits as the memory runs its course, filtering into his core.

Wary, he stills his restless fingers and dares a glance her way. Sif appears troubled and conflicted from his vantage point, silent and hovering in her seat like a euthanized ghost.

Alone by the terrace, he feels criminal.

 

 

-

 

 

Of the twenty-five hundred days spent in existence – in perdition – the last three climax like a flurry of mismatched swords and uncertain lot. Like an inferno gaining force, threatening to consume, only to decline in an un-poetic, non-prosaic state of despair and disrepair.

Gazing upon his reflection, Loki reflects on everything that has occurred (recanting all his faults and crimes).

And so, decides: the first, the last– the _only_ time.

 

 

-

 

 

He lied.

As if by a sadistic miracle, Sif breaks their unspoken impasse. Under a veil of shadows she presses against him, presses lips harshly to his as her fingers leave him with an excruciating pain of scarred clawing. Tall and supple, she contorts and twists her body like a butterfly gymnast. Stretches her endless legs around his waist and unwinds her arms, enveloping him in a cloud like, bottled tight lust.

Loki inwardly gasps. Waits for the mind-numbing surprise to wear off and kisses her back, feeling like he is committing some dreadful vice. Some horrible affliction.

Still he kisses her back. Pours every hurt and want and need into it and it is only then that she pulls away. Without turning to look at him she walks off, head down, wisps of hair swimming past her back in silent invitation.

_The mind is a channel, going vertigo, is spiralling out of control._

Loki follows with baited breath, can feel it: pulse lashing to break free out of his chest.

The dissonance ends entirely when she comes to a stop outside his bedroom door.

 

 

-

 

 

“Sif?” _what are you doing?_

“Don’t talk.”

“But–” _what do you_ want _from me?_

“I said don’t talk.”

 

 

-

 

 

Loki learns via trepidation, suffocation, over the harsh staccato of moans and breaths: miracles do happen.

Even at world’s end in the abyss of aeons lost.

 

 

-

 

 

Summer is a sin, or should be, he thinks.

It’s hot, stinking of rancid rot (the hyacinths turn their heads, freshly dead petals cover the ground like a matted, holy sanctuary) and brings with it a whirlwind of longings and distastes left to fester and ferment.

Like flies to honey, bees to blooms (like favour and the Realm Eternal to shining Thor).

Along with summer rages, Loki is turned inside out, thoughts swimming with maddening intent all about him. Sees a face, raven hair, the curve of lips – those cursed ruby lines he likes best – reflected in everything. Off bronze panels and blue, bottomless pools.

Again and again, her sighs ring clear and true in his ear. The taste of her lingers on the fork-edge of his tongue, intimating a hunger he cannot gratify.

It’s bad, it’s sick, maddened he picks up his pace. The sun catches up, shines harshly on his skin. Beating him down and rupturing in sweat. Out of the crevices between the pores, the sun draws blood.

(Summer is the dry waste, beautiful in bounty and paid in red.)

 

 

-

 

 

In an intoxicated haze, skin ablaze, they indulge in playing rough. Tumbling off sheets, hitting the hard marble below. And when the floor catches Sif, he takes her into his arms (in the imitation and intimation of an intimate embrace innately lost on her) and peels her raw, peels her bare, watching on in despairing fascination as she unravels in his hands.

As she comes saying his name – Loki, Loki, _Loki!_ – fingers tangling in his hair, digging into his arms.

(Summer is torture, is slaughter season.)

 

 

-

 

 

_Loki–_

It’s the most wounding blow she has ever dealt him.

 

 

-

 

 

He is shot with pain (is stabbed) as the memory filters through his mind. Loki awakes to a forsaken silence, turns his head… and finds Sif already gone.

Alone once more, pushed beyond the edge. Where he feels like falling off–

and the edge of the world looks so inviting and bleak.

Standing on shaky legs, he makes his way down a precipice, gazing out upon austere stars and a doom not too distant. Ready, expecting, _now and always_. Loki braces himself.

And leaps.

 


End file.
